Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

KAUFMAN'S LACUNA

In Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Charlie Kaufman opens up his Magic Box of Memory Erasure and tosses in Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey, where they discover themselves needing to discover each other at least twice!

After reading a brief post about some asshole who apparently is also a Vice-President of the United States it occured to me that Kaufman was onto something that speaks not just of his two lovers but is also a metaphor for the Bush Administration. Here we go: I was reading a posting on Crooks and Liars about Dick Cheney pooh-poohing Amnesty International's charges regarding Gitmo, Abu Grahib, etc. when the following occured to me...

In the film (Eternal Sunshine...) there is a scene where Jim Carrey, while his memory is being selectively erased (so that his heartbreak at losing his girlfriend can also be erased) he "sees" Kate Winslet at her work. She, in turn, is being visited by a character played by Elijah Wood, who is now her boyfriend. But Carrey, who is watching from a short distance away, cannot see the front of Wood's head. He cannot see a face, only the back of the this stranger's head, which is covered in dark hair. No matter where Carrey positions himself, even when it appears that he should be viewing the mystery man's face, he only gets to see the back of the head, a disconcerting effect if ever there was one.

Now, when anyone in our current administration looks at the collective mirror they can't see anything bad (or if they do they are fired!) Our current administration is responsible for nothing negative, because "the negative" does not exist where we are running things! This is the same kind of effect that occurs with Carrey's character: no matter where he looks at Wood, Wood has no face. No matter where the Bush Administration looks, when looking at itself or what it has wrought, it has no face--no culpability, no prescence beyond a positive one.

I name this phenomenon, this disease, in honor of the film and the film's author "KAUFMAN'S LACUNA" (in the film the company that performs the memory erasure is called "Lacuna" which means An empty space or a missing part; a gap. Bushco suffers from a collective case of KAUFMAN'S LACUNA. Can they see beyond their worldview? Can they see the fronts of the faceless heads of those who have been killed or wounded by their policys?

KAUFMAN'S LACUNA: A gap in a governing body's ability to objectively view reality, or its part in reality. Such a gap can be caused through cynicism or via a blinkered world-view: its effects are rapid destruction of the body politic and the society in general. Caution, once thrown to the wind, has been lost forever.

Relax, erase your mind. Remember nothing. We are in control now. Drift down stream. The red color of the water is the red of hope. The bodies rotting on the banks are nature's way. The gun pointed at you is the face of love. Die for Bush. Die.

HAVE YOU AT LAST NO SHRED OF DIGNITY?

"Mr. Anderson...the Matrix has decided to cut you some slack and is letting you got scott free. Just don't let us catch you burning any flags.Now go make an appointment with our Office Frau: we have a few offshore operations we'd like your help with...

Saturday, May 28, 2005

PAYING SOME ATTENTION TO LINDY

A man I know died a couple of months ago. I had bartended at his local watering hole off and on for more than a dozen years or so. He was 86 years of age when he passed, which holds a small irony as the expression “86” in bar language means “You’re out of here.” His name was Grant but everyone called him Lindy, and never did I see him do anything that would warrant his being 86’d from a bar. He was a talkative man, short in stature, unassuming, alone most of the time. Lindy volunteered to visit fellow veterans in nursing homes, and he went to VFW meetings downtown. He attended the occasional Dodger game with friends, had a yearly $10.00 football bet on USC to beat UCLA with a fellow regular, watched Laker games with interest on the bar television . Though an ex-smoker, he was known to sneak a drag or two now and then.

Raised in Wyoming, Lindy flew planes and fought in World War II, moved to L.A. after the war, got married and divorced here in the usual order, and never mentioned to me anything about his religion or lack thereof. The only name-dropping I ever heard him do was to proclaim he had gone to the same high school as Jerry Buss, who was behind him some years.

It was too cold in Wyoming, Lindy used to say. Too cold and too hard. Los Angeles was just fine with him.

I first met him in the early 1980’s at a neighborhood bar that did not outlast that curious decade. That watering hole stumbled to its death by 1987—when it closed Lindy migrated to where I worked down the boulevard: a neighborhood bar and restaurant that was neither sophisticated nor cool but was home for many in its own imperfect way. Lindy would often talk and talk to me while I bartended, about politics, sports, the weather. There were also other regulars he might speak with on any number of forgettable nights, and among the regulars thousands of words were sounded, and glasses raised, and birthdays celebrated with pieces of cake and slightly awkward attempts at singing the birthday song. We got him a Wyoming Cowboys baseball cap one year—he put it on his head quicker than you could say Casper.

And so the seasons passed, and time did its little number on all of us. I moved out of the neighborhood, and left bartending behind as well. Lindy grew older until he became forgetful and frail. He had a brother in Florida who was quite elderly himself, but that was all the blood family he had left (a step-son had left some time ago for Idaho and could not be reached). Lindy and his brother came from Norwegian stock, and long lives were common in their family: their mother lived to be 98. A couple of friends, Dave and Richard whom he knew from the bar, looked after him, took him to doctor appointments and to lunch at the neighborhood diner once a week or so. Richard would call and check on him: he dialed him some months back only to find Lindy’s phone had been shut off for lack of payment. Lindy would forget to pay bills. Finally, when Lindy became so forgetful that Dave and Richard were concerned about his leaving the stove on or remembering to eat, the two men told Lindy what was what.

Back when visiting those elderly veterans in convalescent homes and the like, Lindy had been offended by the conditions, the lousy food and the smell, the artlessness of life on the government cheap. He had vowed to himself he would never go to one of those places. Dave and Richard sat down and told him he had enough money, between his Social Security and military stipend to move into a facility that was cleaner, had better food, and would be close to his neighborhood. He resisted at first, thinking of those sad places he had seen first hand, but was at last moved, and that was that.

A couple of months later Lindy passed away in his sleep. If you live you will die, and for this there is no cure. Death is the most democratic of events, and does not discriminate based upon religion or ethnicity or height or weight or how much gum you chewed in school. You are on the ride just like everybody else: I imagine Lindy on the Ferris Wheel on the Santa Monica Pier, smiling, probably a little nervous, wanting a beer and a smoke. Some of us are that way. The ride comes to a stop and you get off, and where next you wander is a mystery.

A small memorial was held for Lindy at the bar, and many who knew him spoke and raised a glass in his honor. I could not attend, but thought about him. Next to me on my desk is a small tea light candle that’s been spent: it’s the one I lit for Lindy. I think of Arthur Miller’s recent passing, and his Death of a Salesman admonishment “Attention must be paid to this man” and I think that’s about right. Lindy wasn’t spectacular or funny or profound or any of a thousand characteristics that get a person remembered: he just was what he was, and now he is gone. Lindy got off the ride, and the world hasn’t been the same since. These words are my way of paying attention.

So long, Lindy. Even though I’m a UCLA fan, I’m glad you won your last bet on the Trojans.

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the image of the ferris wheel came from here: http://www.sos.state.il.us/kids/wheel2.jpg

Friday, May 27, 2005

MEMORIAL DAY SHADOWS

You can't bury a shadowYou can't burn a shadowYou can't expect the shadow to laugh at your jokesYou can't deliver a message to a shadowYou can't make a shadow eat a pizzaYou can't put a shadow on a bone and bring a dead friend back to lifeYou can't make a killer stop his own shadowYou can't stop the shadow from tryingYou can't explain temperature to a shadowYou can't lift a shadowYou can't say goodbye to a shadow

Thursday, May 26, 2005

GIANT MOTHERFUCKING SKUNKS ORGANIZING PART 2

The rest of this story has been written in the form of song lyrics. No, I don't write music. Yes, sometimes I have a melody.

AHEM:

The skunks were huge, enormous beastsRutting and squeaking at the river feastLegends from some perverse taleA tale from out of timeSome stories like a river get lost in time

I lay at the feet of the near-sighted onesI thanked them for not wearing gunsThey turned away and showed their glands"Ah, I understand," I said"I think I understand"

(Skunk chorus)We came here from the mountains deepBeneath the faults that crack the landWe came to the river to do our danceHere beneath the moonWe dance beneath the moonBefore we go back to the mountains deepBack to the mountains deepBack to the places where legends sleep

Two of the skunks picked me upAnd set me on the bankThey waddled back to the water's edgeAnd then the dance beganThe giant skunk dance on the river began

They swayed and bent and rose on upTheir tails to the heavens waving soTheir darkened paws reaching out, out like a child's prayerThe skunks danced everywhereEvery where the river did runThe skunks danced on the waterAnd the water she did run

(Skunk chorus)We came here from the mountains deepBeneath the faults that crack the landWe came to the river to do our danceHere beneath the moonWe dance beneath the moonBefore we go back to the mountains deepBack to the mountains deepBack to the places where legends sleep

A fog had wandered down to the lowPlaces where the water flowedI looked about but could not seeAny of the giant skunksThey had gone back to the mountains deep

I left the river and walked on homeFeeling sad and so aloneWhat is a life spent far awayDeep in the earth where the legends playDeep in the earth where the legends play

(Skunk chorus)We came here from the mountains deepBeneath the faults that crack the landWe came to the river to do our danceHere beneath the moonWe dance beneath the moonBefore we go back to the mountains deepBack to the mountains deepBack to the places where legends sleep

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

GIANT MOTHERFUCKING SKUNKS ORGANIZING

I went for a walk in my neighborhood last night, the moon, waning just past full, threw quite a bit of light pert near about everywhere I could see. Overall, a really nice stroll around 11:00 p.m. here in PDST. I eyed our Jacaranda out front: I could make out every purple flower on its yawning limbs. Every last one of them. We notice our Jacarandas out here in May and June: they practically scream "Hey, look at all this purple! Did you every see so much purple in all your life? Didja?" Jacarandas: pretty trees, smart trees, talking trees. Some even pull up their roots when the sun goes down: they head to Pasadena and scare the shit out of the late night latte crowd. I've seen it happen, so there. The Jacarandas head up the 2 north to the 134 east and then on to Tournament of Roses town. Don't ask me why they do it. I don't know why they do it, and frankly, I don't want to know.

I live very close to the Los Angeles River, which was cemented over many years ago by the Army Corps of Engineers. They had a different approach to nature back then, with various Public Works Projects in motion during the 1930s, like The Coast Guard putting tile on the ocean floor beneath Los Angeles Harbor, the DWP's yearly applying of a coat of shellac to homeless people, and the Forest Mowers annual assault on the Verdugos. Different times produce different approaches.

I love visiting the river at night, when hardly anyone except those kids with guns hang out. I thought to myself: what the heck, there's alot of moonlight and if I have to I can take a few bullets, so why not go down to the river? So, there I went, walking down to the river when just up ahead I saw a three hundred pound skunk waddling up the dirt path to the rise next to the waterway, and I thought "Big skunk." Wouldn't you? Wouldn't anybody? I followed at a safe distance (distance in Los Angeles is measured in time, not in feet, yards or what-have-you. If you ask an Angeleno how far Venice Beach is he or she will ask you what day and time were you thinking of going--"it's 38 minutes on Saturday at 9:00 a.m., but that shoots up proportionally as the minutes click by.") A safe distance in following the skunk, I determined, was two minutes and 23 seconds. I ascended the small slope and peered down below: What I saw at river's edge blew my mind but did not blow me.

The legendary Order of the Odor of Skunks was having its rut-fest right here in my hood--giant motherfucking skunks organizing just down the road, up a path, and down the bank of the cemented river from yours truly. The largest ones were upwards of five hundred pounds, great bellowing Musk Fucks who gyrated their torsos back and forth, manipulating the group down closer to the water. I contemplated gaining a safer distance (I would move to Paris) but froze in my spot when a young monster, maybe the size of a fat Rottweiler, began to head right towards me. I knew I was faster than these behemoths, but I decided to play dead and hope for the best. Not a good move, considering the nipper clipped my sweatshirt in his chompers and dragged me down to the center of the great gathering. I was surrounded by more than five hundred bizarrely large, rather aroused and distinctly putrid carnivores. They smelled like shit, except that shit smells better. These mammals have no known counterpart in the human world, except for the Press Secretary to the President of the United States, Scott McClellan, who oddly enough, has two glands on either side of his anus, just the same as skunks. Do not ask me how I know because I am not going to tell you.

Where was I? Oh yes, the great herd glared at me--actually, even with the moonlight they squinted, their eyesight being a bit on the weak side. They can't see anything clearly past three feet, which is why they have a problem with cars. Cars often start out more than than three feet away, traveling at speeds quite past the reach of the average skunk, then the car will be less than three feet away, still moving rapidly, until the skunk is no more. I thought about this as the Stink of Skunks began to squeal and blather and otherwise freakify me to the beyond. But their eyes caught me as well: dark, very dark. Pretty eyes. I made a mental note that if I should survive this encounter I would paint those eyes, over and over, everywhere I went. The Eyes From the Night of Five Hundred Really Big Skunks would become my calling card on bus benches, on buses, on the Metrolink, stop signs, optometrist offices, taco stands, that restaraunt that keeps asking me stay away...but I digress.

COME BACK TOMORROW FOR PART TWO OF THE GIANT MOTHERFUCKING SKUNKS ORGANIZING STORY!

SENATE COMPROMISE INSPIRES DANCE CRAZE

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

THE GANG OF FOURTEEN CAME A RIDING INTO TOWN

Oh, the Gang of 14 came a riding into townThey rode right in the center and some locals they did frownThey rode right in the centerBare' a nod to left or rightThey rode right in the centerIn the middle of the night

Some say they rode into the town because of trouble in the landSome say that greed and violence had made them play their handThe Wild Boys looked anxiousAt the 14 silhouettesAcross the flat horizonOut of time for sad regrets

The Gang of 14 tied their rides outside the Real SaloonThey strode right in and headed for the privatist of roomsNone could hear them talkingBut talk and talk they didThey spent the evening talkingThen emerged again they did

"We have an announcement" their leader yelled aloud"We have ridden on flooded plain beneath the darkened cloudsBut now we have decidedThis town can still be savedSo we haved ordered asphaltAt least the center will be paved"

The Gang of 14 untethered their horses from the railThe Centrists took off riding, in wind and snow and hailThe townsfolk they all gatheredAnd looked at their new streetThey all agreed it wasn't fairAnd resumed to fighting constantly

Oh, the Gang of 14 came a riding into townThey rode right in the center and some locals they did frownThey rode right in the centerBare' a nod to left or rightThey rode right in the centerIn the middle of the night

Monday, May 23, 2005

BILL FRIST HAS ALIBI, IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT GOES ON IN THE SENATE

Senator and Lead Video Diagnostician Bill "Here, Puss-Puss" Frist has produced a document that is purported to prove he is not, as Senate Majority Leader, responsible for anything. The document, titled "I Was Not Responsible For Anything That Happened in the Senate" has been making the rounds in DC since the Central 14 Group, led by John McCain, hammered out a bilateral compromise that averted the Senate showdown over the so-called "Nuclear Option."

Senator Frist, speaking from inside a bathroom stall in his Senate Chamber's Office, said "Dobson! It's all Dobson's fault! I wanted to play along, but..." before regaining his compposure and flushing the rest of his dignity down his private toilet.

I SAW ORRIN HATCH, AS ALIVE AS YOU OR ME

I saw men in suits talking up a stormThey all talked a lot, and then they talked some moreI saw men in suits, and yes, some women tooI saw them all and saw what they can do

I saw Orrin Hatch and lots of men in suitsThey had lovely ties and lots of knots to bootAmerica is dressed up and ready to goI saw Orrin Hatch and I know he knows I know

(chorus)Power grab! Power grab!Let's grab up all the powerFor the good folks in Moab!All we need are fifty votesThen one more from Dick CheneyLet's grab up all the powerSo the others won't have any, boysSo the others won't have any

I saw men in suits talking up a stormThey all talked a lot, and then they talked some moreI saw men in suits, and yes, some women tooI saw them all and saw what they can do

I saw Orrin Hatch and lots of men in suitsThey had lovely ties and lots of knots to bootAmerica is dressed up and ready to goI saw Orrin Hatch and I know he knows I know

(repeat chorus)Power grab! Power grab!Let's grab up all the powerFor the good folks in Moab!All we need are fifty votesThen one more from Dick CheneyLet's grab up all the powerSo the others won't have any, boysSo the others won't have any

CONSPIRACY THEORY STRANGELY CONSPIRATORIAL

WELL, IT'S NOT LIKE HE KNEW HE WAS BEING USED

According to CNN, the parents of Pat Tillman are upset (here) In an interview with the Washington Post, Mary Tillman said:

"The military let him down. The administration let him down. It was a sign of disrespect. The fact that he was the ultimate team player and he watched his own men kill him is absolutely heartbreaking and tragic. The fact that they lied about it afterward is disgusting."

Do to a foul-up in the heat and (presumed) panic of battle, a high-profile soldier is killed by his own troops. Later, after dinner and cigars, military and political higher-ups decide to stick virtual electrodes into the story to animate the soldier's body to perform in a script more to their liking. We'll go back in time, adjust a few dials, and Presto! we have a winner!

And they claim to not like Hollywood! Pah! Oh, and this is how we treat our Patriots! Good thing he supported the military, or they might have pretended his death was from 'friendly fire.'

Sunday, May 22, 2005

NO CHILD LEFT ALIVE

Congratulations to parents at Garfield High School in Seattle. According to an article in the Christian Science Monitor school PTA members voted to deny recruiters the right to enter the campus and fish for cannon fodder for Bush's War Machine Dream Team World Tour.

Garfield High School took a decisive step last week with a vote of 25 to 5 to adopt a resolution that says "public schools are not a place for military recruiters."

You can't bring a gun to school so why would we allow a teenager to be approached by a recruiter who will talk about giving guns to teenagers?

From the recruting perspective: Douglas Smith, a US Army spokesman, said the job of recruiters is not to make promises but to show applicants possibilities and career options.

Career options...hmmm...be shot at or blown up in Iraq fighting a war based on bald-faced lies or go to the beach...hmmm.

GUESS WHO'S TALKING AT DINNER? GO AHEAD, GUESS

(This post was originally written back when faux journalist JimmyJeffGuckertGannon the 1st was moving out of the private sector, then moving back in, then out, then in, a slight adjustment, then out, one more slight adjustment, then in and then a sort of upward thrusting action, then out, followed by a very sweet question about why Hillary Clinton was divorced from reality but still married to her...wait, back in, then out, then in again with a determined move to the right, a pause, then a circular grind to the left, then...yes, why was Hillary still with...a very hard slap on the bacon box, followed by an 'oh, daddy' and a "horses scare you, don't they, daddy? big nasty horses...giddyap! Git! Ah woo!!!!" Like I was saying, the following was written during that whole Day Pass thing. I told you cash! Cash!

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Having the family eat dinner together is a sacred tradition that I will never treat lightly. Perhaps my feelings about this subject stem from my own childhood when dear father would regale my siblings and me with tales of how each of us would pay dearly for any attempts at conversation during our evening meal. Since then, much has been forgiven between father and I, as my lawyers so elegantly pointed out in the restraining order. Love bears all things, and what it won’t bear can often be chillingly detailed in legal language.

So it is with some trepidation that I face the music of my own family, as I build a blood-legacy based upon trust and respect, with just a dash of plain old-fashioned fealty for me, the King of the Castle. My wife, however, keeps asking me impertinent questions, i.e. ‘Did you get a job today? Did you even look for a job?’ It was during one of these assaults on my, oh I don’t know, sovereignty, when Randy, an eleven year-old tow headed pup, interrupted and spoke:

“Mr. Dad, seeing as how many in our family seem divorced from reality, how do you plan to engage in meaningful dialogue with those who use divisive, attacking language?”

I replied by first thanking Randy for his insightful question while at the same time serving myself a second helping of pasta. Who says men can’t multi-task? “I think what Randy—do you mind if I call you ‘Spike?—anyway, what Spike is suggesting gets to the heart of the matter. How can we hope to communicate, when the gulf between us is in a cavern, and there are no tours? How indeed can we as a family ever hope to achieve…” It was then that my wife began her second assault upon my throne.

“Excuse me, who is Randy? And why did he just call you Mr. Dad?”

I looked over at Spike to see if he wanted to field this one, but he had already gone back to his lap top. Kids today: what are you going to do? Anyway, time passed, and my darling bride began to scowl. Scowling, I helpfully reminded her, is the anti-botox.

I am not suggesting that my wife is "pesky" but she doesn’t always know when to let things go. Raising her eyebrows, another facial gesture that could come back to haunt her in her decaying years, she spoke again, “I repeat: who is this kid and why did he just call you Mr. Dad? And what are those laminated credentials doing around his neck?”

I explained that Spike was with our family on a day-pass, hardly unique in this hectic and suspicious world. Next to him sat Dustin, who had a hard pass but then lost it at school. Dustin did not look up from his Social Security Study Guide. Scraps, our family dog, was chewing idly on his evening pass. Things looked pretty normal as far as I could see. I asked for more garlic bread. You could have heard a pin drop, if I hadn’t spilt so much pasta on the floor back when I was multi-tasking earlier.

“Who are you trying to kid here?” my wife asked. “You bring in some ringer, some adolescent I don’t even know—does he even have experience being a kid?”

Without looking up Spike responded, “I went to a “How to be a Kid” seminar in Thousand Oaks. Cost me fifty bucks.” Man, I liked him. I vowed right then that I would do everything in my power to get him a hard pass, so help me God. All I could add to his powerful testimony was that I was still waiting for the garlic bread.

“Allow me to review here,” said my beloved. I was pretty sure I had her back on her heels at this point. “I ask a few tough questions about your job status which you don’t even have a response for, then some “guest” son lobs you a softball query, and I haven’t even gotten around to who Dustin is, and this is how we operate now? Fake kids, fake questions, and still you have no job? What are you going to do next, run for President?”

You never know where ideas are going to come from, but when they arrive the trick is to be ready, to spread your wings and fly. Now if only I can get Spike into the Press Room…

Saturday, May 21, 2005

MILKY WAY MONSTER EATS JESUS DURING MAIDEN FLIGHT TO HEAVEN, OR NOT, MAYBE

Sweet Jesus, leader of a wandering band of wanderers, spiritual jester and all around good friend may have finally met his match some 2,000 years after bodily rising from the dead and careening skyward like some spiritual rocketship: He may have been eaten by a galactic monster.

When Yeshau Mashiach broke tradition by leaving the planet (after some humorless murderers tried to turn him into beef jerky), many in the reifying community saw it as a sign that apples would soon jump back onto the trees that gave them birth. In orchard after orchard throughout the Middle East, solemn, spiritual men could be seen staring blankly at the fruit trees. Many gave up and went home and ate a little something and went to bed. BUT THE MAIN POINT IS that Jesus had finally broken through the Metaphorical Reality Barrier (MRB) and gone on to (presumably) bigger and better things. Alas, alas. One more alas. One final alas: when metaphors hit reality there is often a really loud explosion, followed by flying remnants of dogma. As for any sound effects (sfx) Jesus couldn't produce sfx in space because there isn't any atmosphere to carry the sound waves. Not to mention...forget it.

Joseph Campbell, sworn enemy to those who enjoy a sworn enemy now and again, pointed out--while addressing the idea of a literal physical rising of a body, godly or not--that the fastest known oject in the Universe is the speed at which light travels. This is 186,000 miles per second (when next watching a NASCAR event or the Indy 500 go and turn on a flashlight: you just won! By a lot!) With Jesus' followers forsaking the idea of a metaphorical rising for the literalists' physical rising He would have been hamstruck by reality: the body must follow certain rules or it won't be allowed to play. At this point True Believers will often invoke the Samantha Stevens' Nose Twitch Analogy wherein a God can do whatever He (or She or HeShe/SheHe) wants with the laws of the Universe. The problem then becomes if you can just make shit up, why bother to play? What is the point of bodily arising if that body isn't a body at all but instead a mere template of Hinduistic illusions? We can't bloody well turn Yaweh into Vishnu/Brahma/Shiva can we? Shudder the thought. Shudder. Shudder. Western dualistic shudder-shuddering, on and on. Shuddah!

Back to the chase: Jesus has at His upper limit the 186,000 mile per second barrier. Though helmet technology was primitive in Roman times lets say He had some sort of cranial protection from asteroids, space bits, comets and such. Recently crucified for trying to make sense out of life, this Launching Pad Jesus rockets into the Great Beyond. Now, the disc-like Milky Way galaxy that the Christ is traveling through is roughy 3,000 light years thick out where the Earth's trailer park is located. This means that 2,000 years after being rudely murdered Jesus would be about roughly two-thirds the way through our ass end of the galaxy. Bodily Risen Jesus has had about as long a shuttle as a sentient being could stand without getting very, very tired of peanuts and ginger ale. And the in-flight Dead Sea Scrolls would get wearisome, I can assure you.

Which brings me to this: Jesus Jonathon Livingston Seagull Christ may have met his trans-metaphorical match and been consumed by either a black hole or a very dark rhombus, or at best saw the nasty space leviathon linked to above and aborted his flight entirely. Or perhaps our dear, sweet Jesus is in literal fact Lost in Space; the metaphorical/mythological alpha and omega of The Middle Eastern Messiah left (after all) before Mapquest even existed, and has pulled over at some interstellar rest stop with no phone or clean restrooms or decent vending machines. Such a lost Jesus could mean that we are, alas, alas, alas hopelessly alone and past all salvation, if you go in for that sort of thing.

Unless Jesus really was just talking metaphoricaly, in which case we're okay. And I don't think Jesus was eaten by that monster. At least not literally.

Friday, May 20, 2005

STEM CELLS TO FIGHT IN IRAQ

(CNN) -- President Bush on Friday threatened to veto a bill expanding public funding for embryonic stem cell research that could make it to his desk by early next week.

"I made [it] very clear to the Congress that the use of federal money, taxpayers' money, to promote science which destroys life in order to save life, I'm against that," Bush told reporters. "Therefore if the bill does that, I will veto it."

Mortaljive wants to play to!

Let's try Bush's measured, life-affirming thinking as an approach to the war in Iraq:

"I made [it] very clear to the Congress that the use of federal money, taxpayers' money, to promote War in Iraq which destroys life in order to save life, I'm against that," Bush told reporters. "Therefore if the bill does that, I will veto it."

NURSERY RHYMES ADJUSTED FOR INFLATION

(The following nursery rhymes were inspired by General JC Christian:He is, however, not responsible for the content and shouldnot be hauled into court)

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Georgie Porgie, meatloaf and mudKissed a cow and touched its cudWhen the cow turned out to be a horse who was gay Georgie Porgie said “Too bad you’re not a whore too,then I could get you two double-plus good years ofday passes.”

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How many miles to Babylon?Three score and ten.Can we blow it up?Aye, again and again.If your guns are nimble and light,You can blow it up tonight.

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Jack Sprat ate lots of fatHis wife ate bacon greaseBetwixt the two of themThe Lord is very pleased

Thursday, May 19, 2005

George Galloway On the Floor of the U.S. Senate

(George Galloway agreed to report from the floor of the U.S. Senate during the proceedings regarding the so-called "Nuclear Option" and share his thoughts with me. In return I have agreed to post his words. A simple deal, made all the more attractive by its complete disregard for reality)

Galloway reporting here. What a vomitous vortex of self-important bandicoots. Egads! Here on the floor of the U.S. Senate it all looks so very cafeteria-like, what with all the trays and food scraps beneath the senator's ass cosys. Oh great drunken worm diddlers, another one is blathering about something. Why don't you go lick a dog's pizzler, you daft cretin? I'll show you what-for, you puttock! Don't fain ignorance, you chum-breathed cornhole wrangler. That's right, I'm talking to you. Have the decency to at least wipe the shit off your mouth before hurling your kidney bits everywhere!

Another Senator is reaching for his...fuckin' iPod! He's listening to some dick-bellied hoosier sing about Jesus loving money-hoarders or somesuch tin can of rotting mackeral. Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, you gutless inbred oxygen waster! You want some of me? Unlike you I have not bent over for every greasy corporate muddledredger who wants to stick his dripping gopher wand into a bilge drain. Oh, kiss my angel's clit, you fucktwaddling stick biter! I'll wonk you silly, you mincing, princing pony fluffer!

Certain developments have arisen...I am going to have to run over to the other side.

(two minutes later) Security is advancing towards me...Listen, you pasty faced tic guzzlers, you can no more apprehend me than find your own ears! Try and catch me, you lumbering plank-browed giglets! It's hard to say if the filibuster will survive these rank shit-eaters. You never know, but they all didn't mind sending their country's youth off to kill in Iraq--That's right, you pathological assassins! Death to everyone but you and your sweetheart money bags, your lake views and your back alley blow jobs. Fuck off! You have nothing but lies to steer your course by, and soon there will be nothing but lies everywhere and you won't be allowed to come home! You can't kill everybody, or drag the truth around like some Fristian Cat Corpse for all time, can you? Oh, go fuck a light standard, you gaseous toad humpers!

Well, Security is closing in with a resoluteness heretofore un-witnessed on the Senate floor. I have to leave, but let me say that it was an honor and a privilege to report these sober proceedings so that all of America can...Oh, go eat your own puddle driblets, you godless drones!

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

A Song Just Posted at JC General

Jesus' General wrote a letter about the plight of poor, bleagured white conservatives--especially ones who don't mind posting racial slurs on the Internet(s) to help drive a point home. As usual, the General inspired me:

Celebrating Fifty Years of Racism!

Immigrants are gnarlyThey're fat and dumb and wetThey'll eat up all the barleyThey do not make good pets

Immigrants are troubleSo brown and lost and madI'm proud to say goodbye to themAnd kick them in the gnads

See, the future is a promiseThe past is a big lieAll we have is a private "now"Go get your own damn pie

(chorus)Wetbacks! Wetbacks!With backs that are really wetThey swam across the rioThey should use the Internet(You can sit naked with a wig onWhen you use the Internet)But my point is Wetbacks! Wetbacks!Get a towel and go on homeAmerica is a swimming poolWhere the whites can be alone

Did I mention they all smell bad?Or that their legs are thin?They're addicted to tequilaThey drink it just like gin

Illegal are the ways of manLawbreakers all the wayThrow them out on Friday mornThey come back on Saturday

I wish they would just stay homeSo white folks could go outI'm tired of seeing brown peopleEvery time I rant and shout

(chorus)Wetbacks! Wetbacks!With backs that are really wetThey swam across the rioThey should use the Internet(You can sit naked with a wig onWhen you use the Internet)But my point is Wetbacks! Wetbacks!Get a towel and go on homeAmerica is a swimming poolWhere the whites can be alone

Immigrants are gnarlyThey're fat and dumb and wetThey'll eat up all the barleyThey do not make good pets

Immigrants are troubleSo brown and lost and madI'm proud to say goodbye to themAnd kick them in the gnads

See, the future is a promiseThe past is a big lieAll we have is a private "now"Go get your own damn pie

(chorus)Wetbacks! Wetbacks!With backs that are really wetThey swam across the rioThey should use the Internet(You can sit naked with a wig onWhen you use the Internet)But my point is Wetbacks! Wetbacks!Get a towel and go on homeAmerica is a swimming poolWhere the whites can be alone

Well blog me down!

This is my second attempt at blogging--a couple of years ago, when the world was just as ugly and beautiful as it is now but needed less makeup, I futzed with a blog (not including an earlier incarnation via AOL called "Next Miles") but not being tech savvy, and impatient with such things, I instead dropped it like a warm turd and went a-haunting.

So, without further ado, I bring you Mortaljive (deafending applause), the place where snark meets tuna.

I am going to try and figure out how to upload images now. Stop reading...now.